


What is there left to sell? My soul?

by sailingpluto97



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: M/M, Mental Instability, Self-Hatred, accepting oneself, mental analysis, resignation, selling oneself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingpluto97/pseuds/sailingpluto97
Summary: Sometimes in order to survive we do many things. Terrible things, sad things or shameful things. Our actions are no longer perceived as good or bad. We just perform them. Then, we see no other way out. Just keep on surviving. Some of us lose even soul and become mindless body. Some are realising everything and they hate themselves.Crowley is one of those. He is drowning in self-hating cycle and he rarely takes a breath now. Clinging to survival, he hopes for a brighter future. But he cannot achieve it alone.





	What is there left to sell? My soul?

**Author's Note:**

> My first fiction... With this fic I wanted to write down one of the serious problems which is poisoning our society. Why have I used Crowley and Halt? To be honest, I do not know. They are somehow familiar to me and that makes it easier for me to write. I do not expect to be understood by choice of topic. But I hope at least some of you will endure with me till the last chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy the prologue,  
> Yours Jackdaw

There was nothing to welcome him as he closed the door and tossed his keys onto the table. More importantly, no one. It pained him like a burning iron.  But, his lips curled in a sour smile, do I want to actually see someone now? Would I be able to look into their eyes? All that his gaze rested upon was old scruffy lamp with dim faint yellow light. It was accusing him. He knew it.

„Shut up. It’s not my fault.“

Or is it?

He still felt them. Those hands, trailing along his body, leaving nothing alone. Fingers crawling like greedy snakes upon his skin.

Sudden sickness took over his body. He staggered to bathroom and by last strength knelt by the toilet. He barely managed to hold his long hair when he started vomiting all his shame into the toilet. As it finally ended, his lungs desperately screamed for oxygen. Along his sharp breaths, he heard their words, whispered into his ears, taking appropriation of him, making him their possession.

Brusque pain throbbed behind his eyes and started to spread throughout his head. Eventhough he did not trust his wobbly legs, soon it forced him to stand up and go to the kitchen, where he took a glass and put it under cold stream of water. He did not care, that the water started to spill out of the glass. The cold water trickled between his fingers, making them go even more numb than they already were.

  
He raised the glass to his dehydrated lips. His lips? Did they truly belong to him? Or were they already taken from him by the endless touch of lips belonging to many strangers? Was his body truly his? Or was his whole being, his body and soul, property of money payed for simple pleasure and feel of dominance by inconsiderate and thoughtless people?

  
Tears streamed from his eyes in wild streaks. The glass started to shake uncontrolably in his hand. Everyone's body was caught in tumultuous convulsion. His hand could no longer hold the glass full of water and tears so he let it fell into the sink, where it shattered into pieces, just like his soul did. He stopped the tap and through blurry vision watched as last of the water and his tears vanished in sink mixed with his blood.  
Crowley leaned his back against the fridge and slowly slided along it down to the cold, unwelcoming floor. With his weak, bleeding arms he hugged his shins and buried his tears-wet face between his shaking knees. He knew It was there. It was deep in soul, black as night, unsavory and repulsive writhing thing. He could not escape It. He hated It.

  
It was his conscience.

  
Darkness ruled the night at this hour. Like a firefly, the single window of his flat shone from the tower block like a star in lightless night. But behind the window, inside the flat, there was nothing warm. Only cold resignation and despair.


End file.
